


Stages

by mintyfreshness



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 13:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15631395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintyfreshness/pseuds/mintyfreshness
Summary: The Seven Stages of Grief:i. shock and denialii. pain and guiltiii. anger and bargainingiv. reflection and lonelinessv. calmness and collectionvi. reconstruction and working throughvii. acceptance and hope





	1. Link

_i. shock and denial_

 

He gasps.

 

He feels his shoulders collide with the cobbled wall at the back of his cell and the wind is knocked from his chest. Falling to the floor coughing and spluttering, by the time he manages to look up again they have shut the door behind him, the screeching sound of the key turning in the lock echoing throughout the corridor.

 

His hands form fists as he begins to shake, unable to process the last few minutes. The ridiculous trial. The jeering crowd. The irrefutable judge.

 

The bite of shackles on his wrists. The frigidity of the underground. The smirks of the guards.

 

He has been imprisoned.

 

But they can’t, they _can’t_ , because what he said is true, and what if it comes to pass while he is locked in this god-forsaken hell-hole, what if he is not there to defend them as they so need, what if, what if, _what if…_

 

He sits in silence for a long time, consumed by the anxiety within his own mind.

 

* * *

 

_ii. pain and guilt_

 

He hurts.

 

His mind and body are both sore beyond relief, but he no longer can be sure where one stops and the other starts.

 

His body seems to hurt more when there are other people around, when they come into his cell ostensibly to feed him, but he knows that every time they will drop the food on the floor, or in his excrement bucket, they will walk over to him and they will sink their heavy boots into his stomach, his back, wherever they can. They will taunt him and call him traitorous, deranged, forsaken by the goddess.

 

His mind seems to hurt more where there is no one else around, when he is left by himself for stretches where time seems to slow down and one second lasts for an eternity. _You should have waited, you should have kept it to yourself, you should have asked the Goddess directly to intervene, you should’ve, you should’ve, you should’ve…_

 

He sits in the dark and the cold and he tries to stay alive through the pain.

 

* * *

 

 

_iii. anger and bargaining_

 

He rages.

 

After weeks of passivity, he is consumed by an anger that has no way to be extinguished.

 

He screams and seethes at the guards, taunts them, invites them in to do their worst.

 

He rejects his food, kicks it back at the maid who brings it to him every day, curses her for being complicit in his torture.

 

He does not sleep for days, banging on his cage and screaming and shouting at them, until more than a dozen soldiers are sent in to hold him down and shackle him to the wall and gag him.

 

He continues to be as loud, as disruptive as he can. They won’t get the satisfaction of his obedience any more.

 

* * *

 

_iv. reflection and loneliness_

 

He regrets.

 

He regrets his anger, knows that it was never going to achieve anything. And now he is cold, for they have taken his shirt and shoes away, and he is hungry, for they only feed him once a day and even that meal is a pittance for a man of his size and stature.

 

The guards outside his cell rotate often, as if they are afraid to spend too much time around the mad man. The maids hold his tray at arms-length when placing it on the floor in front of him, before scurrying out as quickly as they can.

 

His nose chills, his toes curl under his feet in desperate search for warmth. On one occasion his jaw rattles from shivers for what he thinks is the best part of three hours.

 

The worst of the winter passes. He survived it, though only just. But he still has a long sentence to bear. 

 

He sits in silence and reflects on his mistakes.

 

* * *

 

 

_v. calmness and collection_

 

He resolves.

 

Over several months, he calms and attempts to make up for his transgressions.

 

He apologises to each of the maids, learning their names and expressing his gratitude when they bring him his food.

 

The guards no longer hurry away at the change of watch, but neither are they approachable, and he knows he’ll never find friendship there.

 

His bruises and scars have accumulated over his imprisonment; eventually a medic is brought in to tend to his wounds, smearing an herbal paste over the festering scabs and wrapping his manacles in cloth to ease their bite on his wrists.

 

He is allowed to wear his tunic again, though it offers little protection against the waning cold.

 

He sits in silence for long periods, his only way to measure the passage of time being the changing of the guards and the arrival of his daily sustenance.

 

He sits and reflects, but he still does not forgive.

 

One day, a group of men appear in his cell.

 

* * *

 

 

_vi. reconstruction and working through_

 

He recovers.

 

Slowly, his strength returns, until he can stand unwavering on his own two feet, hold his sword without effort.

 

His hair grows stronger and brighter, his muscles toughen again, his old clothing slowly filled out as he begins to eat as ravenously as he used to.

 

After a time, he begins to volunteer conversation with the other soldiers, mostly those who did not know him before.

 

His confidence returns, his honour somewhat restored. Or maybe it isn’t, but he’s mostly beyond the point of caring.

 

He steps up to make a speech at the castle.

 

* * *

 

 

_vii. acceptance and hope_

 

He watches.

 

He watches the crimson creature descend from the sky.

 

Around him, people shriek, cry, shout. _It’s a demon! A demon! Come to attack us!_

 

_Fire arrows! Quick, we must shoot it down!_

 

Their arrows bounce uselessly off the creature, revealed as a giant bird as it nears the ground. It lands a few feet away from him and the others, who stand in shock as the bird’s passenger appears.

 

_I am the white goddess, Hylia_ , she says.

 

He is enraptured by her immediately.

 

She speaks of the coming destruction, the need to escape to the sky.

 

The Master Sword.

 

She offers it to him.

 

_I cannot, Goddess_ , he replies, _I was imprisoned for a long time, and my honour tarnished. I couldn’t possibly lay hands on this sacred sword_.

 

_The blade knows whether or not you are tarnished, Hero._

 

She looks him straight in the eye.

 

_It is a good judge of character_.

 

She offers him the sword again.

 

He takes it. 


	2. Hylia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is 90% of the angst between the two chapters
> 
> I'm sorry in advance

_i. shock and denial_

           

She searches.

 

She searches frantically, scanning the ranks gathered at the castle, desperate to see a deep green tunic, a tuft of white-blond hair, the shimmer of a sword too intricate to have been forged by the hand of a mortal.

           

She knows he’s not already gone up, has looked anyway even though she knows he would never have left ahead of any other person on the ground, knows he would remain there to triage and defend until the last foot touched the clouds above.

 

She hears a male voice, beckoning her to her left. She turns, hopeful, sees a soldier with a longbow in hand, a deep blue tunic, white growing through his dark curly hair.

           

Not him.

           

But he does know something, this man. _He was over there, Your Grace, he was standing his ground in the remains of the woods, he was defending us as we made our way over here to escape._

           

She thanks the man, blesses him and his family, takes off in that direction as fast as her feet will carry her.

 

In the distance, she sees a deep red sailcloth.

 

* * *

 

  _ii. pain and guilt_

 

She cries.

           

She cries and cries and cries far longer than any mortal could have sustained tears.

           

His tunic becomes soaked with tears even more so than blood, scrunched in her hands, but he does not move, does not open his eyes, does not breathe…

           

Her chest heaves, her eyes sting, her fingers ache from gripping him so tightly, as if she could hold him close enough to bring him back.

 

She missed him by only minutes, his tunic and skin still warm under her fingertips, which makes the pain in her chest grow even tighter.

 

How could this man, this _human_ , bring her to her knees in such a way? How can she be reduced to this, running frantically through a battleground in search of one soldier, with all that is going on in the background?

 

Because she loves him.

 

Because she, the immortal Goddess Hylia, is utterly in love with a human warrior who lies dead on the ground in front of her, not knowing or caring that her heart continues to beat, continues to break at the sight in front of her.

 

She presses her head against his chest again and starts sobbing even harder.

 

* * *

 

  _iii. anger and bargaining_

 

She screams.

 

She screams and screams and screams far longer than any mortal could have sustained a voice.

 

She pounds his chest, pulls her hair, shrieks his name so loudly that _something_ must have heard her, but no one comes.

 

He feels cooler under her now, the warmth that he had in life seeping into the ground underneath where he lies, and with it she feels her spirit draining away. She whimpers, begs him to come back to her even though she knows it’s futile, because nothing can bring him back, nothing will breathe life back into his chest, nothing will make his beautiful blue eyes flutter open and look at her like they used to, with a quiet kindness and reverence and adoration…

 

It all becomes too much, and she feels her being explode, her awareness stretching out for hundreds of metres across the battlefield. Where her golden light touches, the destruction of the war is removed: demons vapourised, bloodstains wiped clean, razed grass regrown. Where the bodies of her fallen Hylians lie, the ground moves over them, covering them in fresh flora to mark their resting places.

 

Immediately around them, the forest is restored, thin pine trees rising out of the ground twenty, thirty metres into the air, forming a dense wall around the clearing where the two of them lie.

 

She stays there, admiring her creations, until she is resolved enough to stand.

 

His face is calm, peaceful, and if not for the gash on his cheekbone she could almost believe that he was asleep.

 

So she raises her sleeping knight up on a bed of soil, gives him a blanket of flowers that pushes through around his body until all but his face is obscured from sight. At the last second, she steps in and retrieves the sword. She knows where she needs to take it.

 

Two steps back. A single tear tracks down her cheek. Two steps forward. A single kiss pressed to his forehead.

 

“Goodbye, my love,” she whispers.

 

* * *

 

  _iv. reflection and loneliness_

 

She sits.

 

She sits in silence and solitude and she thinks.

 

She has not the motivation nor the will to do most anything, save for checking that Skyloft, as her people have so named it, continues to soar high in the sky, a floating fortress for the Triforce that allows them to gain literal and emotional distance from the tragedy on the ground below.

 

She envies them.

 

A generation passes. A new group of children are born and grow, and know only of the battles what they learn from their parents. A people comes together, starts to heal in the presence of these innocent, care-free spirits.

 

She listens to their prayers: prayers of guilt, sorrow, despondency. Prayers of faith, thanks, devotion. Prayers of hope.

 

She listens but she does not pass judgement, does not respond to all but the most desperate; the soldier who fought alongside her, finally dying of illness; the young woman desperate to be blessed with child; the young man who wishes to do his father proud, having never known him for he died at the same time as-

 

She sits in her solitude and envies them.

 

How can they continue with their lives, knowing it is a direct consequence of the sacrifice he gave? How do they do anything without the immeasurable weight of loss pressed on their shoulders? How can they live, when he does not?

 

Their crops do not fail, but they are not bountiful. Mothers do not die in childbirth, but many of them do not conceive at all. The goddess is not cruel, but neither is she benevolent.

 

She sits in silence, in the grey realm of her existence, for hours. Or maybe it’s generations.

 

She knows not, and she cares not, for neither does he. So why should she?

 

* * *

 

  _v. calmness and collection_

 

She reflects.

 

Somewhere in her reflections, she recreates him perfectly in her mind.

 

She sees the white-blond hair, the deep green tunic, the warm leather of his straps and boots, the red fabric slung around his shoulders, the pale blue sky in his eyes.

 

She sees the warm smile that graced his lips so rarely, his warm and welcoming arms, the gentle brush of his fingertips as they combed through her hair.

  

And she knows exactly what he would say to her.

 

He would not want her to sit and mourn as she has done. He did not fall for her to collapse too.

 

He died to save her people, to give them a chance at a new life.

 

He died, but that doesn’t mean he has left her.

 

He died, but that doesn’t mean she has to as well.

 

* * *

 

  _vi. reconstruction and working through_

 

She heals.

 

In Skyloft, the crops strengthen, and the harvest is the most plentiful ever. The celebrations continue for weeks.

 

A new generation is gifted with children. So many children, in fact, that a second room has to be added to the school to make room for them all.

 

The young people unite and inform their elders of their desire to train for battle as their people used to, to make sure they can do Her proud. An academy for knights is established within the week.

 

Their gratitude, their hopefulness – she takes it all and uses it to remind herself to be happy too.

 

She only wishes he was there to share it with her.

 

* * *

 

  _vii. acceptance and hope_

 

She hopes.

 

She sees the green spirit spark to life in his mother’s womb and she cannot help but hope.

 

He glows with such vivacity, with a fight that could not be mistaken for anyone else.

 

A hero is born again.

 

His mother names him Link.

 

She knows Demise will return eventually, that he will never give up the fight for what he so desires. She knows the Triforce is safe for now, but equally that nothing is ever guaranteed. She knows the best way to protect it is to be there in the flesh, among her people.

 

A white spirit sparks to life in her mother’s womb.

 

A goddess is made mortal again.

 

Her mother names her Zelda.

**Author's Note:**

> You know what, the manga is not technically canon and therefore I find it open to interpretation for dramatic license so here we are.
> 
> thanks for reading! Minty xoxo


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